


MTBI

by Trickster88



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Concussions, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Irondad, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Whump, Peter is a Little Shit, Peter's senses are dialed to 105, Protective Tony Stark, Sensory Overload, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22455997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trickster88/pseuds/Trickster88
Summary: “Pete,” Tony whispers, and his breath has a hint of cayenne in it, what did he eat for breakfast? Peter’s never felt this overstimulated, what the hellhappened? “Stay awake. You need to focus.”“I can’t,” Peter’s embarrassed that it comes out a whimper, but frankly he’s surprised it came out at all. “Ican’t, Tony please - “*Written foriron_spider.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 18
Kudos: 653





	MTBI

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iron_spider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iron_spider/gifts).



> You said I owed you a fic and honestly, you were right. [iron_spider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iron_spider) gave me the prompt, "Stay awake. You need to focus." and then this happened. Fair warning that this is totally unbeta'd.

Peter wakes up to screaming.

When he puts it like that, it sounds alarming. It’s not. Well, mostly. Sometimes the screaming is Mrs. Reyes’ soap operas, three doors down the hall. Sometimes it’s the elementary school children down the block, chasing each other in circles on the sidewalk while they wait impatiently for the bus. Sometimes it’s a car horn, or a bird, hitting a frequency that makes Peter wake up in a sheen of sweat, breathless, fists curled. It’s not that bad.

Well, okay, _this_ is bad. _He’s_ the one screaming.

Peter jerks awake to white hot pain. Alright, maybe that’s an exaggeration. It’s red hot. Blue hot at best.

(“I’ve had worse,” Peter says later, defensive. Tony’s expression does something complicated and awful in response. “That’s not exactly a _comfort_.”)

His brain feels like it’s on fire, like somebody opened a hatch and poured bleach straight into his skull. And the smell! It burns his nose, makes him gag, something chemical that smells like piss -

“Kid!”

Peter clamps his hands over his ears, but Tony’s voice echoes painfully anyway. It rings and rings and rings, a neverending corridor in his brain - except it does end, at his eardrums, and it fucking _hurts_.

“Shh! Shh!” Peter says frantically, curling into a ball. Now that his hearing is rushing in, filling the void his unconsciousness left, he can hear everything in agonizing detail. Someone - presumably Tony - is struggling against something fibrous, something that chafes and scratches and tugs at his skin - and the harsh breaths dragging up Peter’s esophagus sound like sandpaper rubbing against itself.

There’s something beeping -

_Drip drip drip_

A dog barking -

_Watch it, asshole, that’s my lane!_

A gas stove clicks, clicks, catches -

_I think I’m gonna pass out._

“You’re not gonna pass out.” Tony’s voice is a whisper, but it still makes Peter cringe on cold, hard, dirty - _ew I can taste it_ \- cement. “Peter, focus on me. Focus, kid, you can do it.”

He can’t, though. He can’t focus. It’s so much, all at once, and Peter keeps his hands clapped over his ears so hard it hurts. His mouth tastes like rainwater, like the muffins from the bakery he knows is around the corner because he can _hear, feel, smell, taste_ -

“Pete,” Tony whispers, and his breath has a hint of cayenne in it, what did he eat for breakfast? Peter’s never felt this overstimulated, what the hell _happened_? “Stay awake. You need to focus.”

“I can’t,” Peter’s embarrassed that it comes out a whimper, but frankly he’s surprised it came out at all. “I _can’t_ , Tony please - “

“You can.” Tony insists, his tone softening even more. Peter squeezes his eyes tight and tries to will the nausea away. “You’re Spiderman. You can do anything.”

The faith makes determination sit heavy in Peter’s stomach, and he takes a deep breath (ignoring the onions he can taste from the Philly Cheese truck, parked four blocks away), trying to find something to focus on. There’s too much, he can’t do it - but he’s _Spiderman_ , he has to try.

Tony’s heartbeat is too fast, _thumpthumpthump...thump, thumpthumpthump...thump_ , with an irregular arrhythmia Peter can only assume is leftover from the arc reactor. It’s something, though, loud and strong, and he takes every scrap of his focus, betting it on black.

_Thumpthumpthump...thump_

_Thumpthumpthump...thump_

Tony doesn’t say anything, as the minutes pass, but even with his eyes closed, Peter can feel the tension radiating from him. He listens to Tony’s heartbeat, which never falters, letting all the other sounds and sensations fade away. He’s not sure how long he lies there, be it minutes or hours, but eventually the overwhelming cacophony abates. His nausea subsides, and Peter’s left with just the dull ache in his skull. He’s not great, but he doesn’t feel like he’s about to faint anymore, so that’s something.

“I’m okay,” Peter whispers, slowly opening his eyes. Tony’s concerned face blurs into focus - the man is bleeding from his temple as well as his wrists, from where he’d pulled too hard on ropes binding him. “What...what happened?”

“Bastards got us outside of the falafel joint.” Somehow, Tony manages to infuse a helluva lot of anger into his whispering, and it makes Peter smile, despite everything. “They knocked you out, hard. You probably have a concussion, kid.”

Well that explains the pain in his head, and probably the sensitivity. If a concussion was bad for somebody normal, why wouldn’t it be extra horrible for someone like him?

“It’s a hard knock life,” Peter says, and Tony’s eyes narrow dangerously. Peter can’t help but grin, raising an eyebrow, even though he still hasn’t moved from the floor. “What, too soon?”

“Less than five minutes after you recover from having a seizure on the floor is the definition of _too soon_.” Tony hisses, and Peter knows he’s in for a classic round of mother-henning as soon as they get the hell out of there.

“Alright, alright, keep your pants on.” Peter picks himself up off the ground, swaying a little as he does so. He takes a minute to stabilize, and Tony watches him dubiously, like he’s expecting Peter to keel over at any second. Which, okay, fair. But still.

“Are you sure you’re good?” Tony’s head cranes to follow him as Peter walks around to undo the ropes; they’re knotted tightly, and flecked with Tony’s blood, where he’s rubbed his skin raw. Peter crouches and picks at them carefully, not wanting to cause him any more pain.

“Why wasn’t I tied up?” What, was he not good enough for rope? Did they run out? Are they just terrible kidnappers? Tony’s fingers flex impatiently, ever the fidgeter. Peter manages to undo the first knot and starts to work on the second.

“You were out cold, and you look like you’re twelve. I don’t think they thought of you as a threat. Are you sure you’re _good_ , kid?”

“I’m threatening! I’m totally threatening. Grr.” Probably not the best way to prove it, if Tony’s pointed silence in response is anything to go by. Peter gets him out of the binds, dropping them to the floor, and circles back around to face his mentor. “I’m good, Tony. I’m fine. Let’s get out of here.”

“You’re not threatening.” Tony points out, hiding a wince as he pokes at his tender wrists. “You’re about as threatening as Elmo on sabbatical.”

“I won’t stand for this abuse.” Peter sways dangerously, and Tony catches him with a firm grip on his shoulder. He guides Peter into the chair he had just vacated, pushing him down firmly, and Peter can’t help but oblige. “...I guess I’ll sit for it.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“We can’t just sit here.” Peter protests, even as he does just that, and sits there. Tony’s firm grip on his shoulder is too much to fight, at the moment. “We have to get out of here before they come back.”

“No, we don’t.” Tony finally releases Peter’s shoulder and taps two fingers to the face of his watch, pulling up a hologram. There’s two red dots, and one of them is moving closer. “Morons didn’t take my tech. The team’s already enroute.”

“Oh,” Peter slumps in the chair, relieved. That wasn’t too bad, then, was it? Tony eyes him critically, flicking another hologram up that Peter has to assume are his vitals. The fact that Tony’s _watch_ has the capacity to scan his vitals should be more worrisome. “What’s the ETA?”

His question is answered when the door flies open, making Peter flinch, hard. Two of the wannabe kidnappers are thrown bodily into the room, cursing and groaning when they land on hard concrete. Peter can see Falcon’s outline, as he flies into the room, hear Cap and company chatting on the man’s comm line, and it’s all so damn _loud_. Peter tries to concentrate on Tony’s heartbeat, thumping along, but before he can think too much about it, the man’s hands are on his ears.

Peter looks up, confused but grateful, as Tony’s palms cover his ears completely. Tony smiles gently, reassuringly, before pulling Peter’s head forward into his chest, giving him somewhere dark and quiet. Peter closes his eyes, blocking out the fighting - he can’t block it all the way, but it’s better, and more than that, the gesture brings a small smile to his face.

The fighting lasts a few good minutes, and Tony says something muffled that sounds like, _Get them out of here, the kid has a concussion_. When Tony does release him, the room is empty again - but the doors are wide open, beckoning freedom.

“That was easy.” Peter notes, and Tony snorts, stepping back to let Peter up out of the chair. “That wasn’t so bad, really. Pretty short for a kidnapping. Nothing even happened.”

“They gave you the mother of all concussions, I wouldn’t call that _nothing_.”

“What’s a little MTBI among friends?”

“Please tell me you didn’t just call the criminals your _friends_.” Tony pinches the bridge of his nose before rolling his eyes skywards, as if he could ascend to Heaven and leave Peter’s mortal plane bullshit behind him by sheer force of will. “MTBI?”

“Mild Traumatic Brain Injury.”

Tony sighs loudly even as Peter grins a bright, shit-eating smile. He loops his arm around Peter’s shoulders, pulling him into his side, and waggles an accusatory finger at him. “I hate you, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Peter snickers to himself, wrapping his free arm around Tony’s waist to return the one-armed hug. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I write Spiderman with no hyphen for the aesthetic.
> 
> Follow my writing blog at [thwip--thwip](http://thwip--thwip.tumblr.com) for more debatably decent content.  
> [Rebloggable link](https://thwip--thwip.tumblr.com/post/190522377855/mtbi) <3
> 
> Comment if you liked it! Love you all 3000.


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